Handcuffs
by Jet44
Summary: Callbacks to all the various times Peter has handcuffed Neal. A series of shorts about Neal, Peter, and in one, Sara. Complete with heaping tablespoons of angst, hurt, comfort, caring, and adorableness. No slash, just deep friendship. but a lot more intimacy than your average bromance. Just like White Collar itself.
1. What Hurts

Callbacks to all the various times Peter has handcuffed Neal. A series of shorts about Neal, Peter, and in one, Sara. Complete with heaping tablespoons of angst, hurt, comfort, and caring.

No slash, just deep friendship. but a lot more intimacy than your average bromance. Just like White Collar itself. That said, I don't even like slash, and _I'd_ be tempted to ship Neal and Peter. So if you do ship the two, I imagine you'll enjoy these.

* * *

Neal sat in the FBI surveillance van, playing with a pair of handcuffs. He knew how to use them, how to escape them, and most of all, what it felt like to wear them. There was still a fascination, mostly because of how emotionally loaded they were.

He didn't dodge Peter's amused glance. The agent found Neal playing with handcuffs as entertainingly ironic as Neal did, but underneath it were many of the reasons to love his FBI overlord. Sharp intelligence and perception. Deep kindness and empathy. Uncorruptible authority. Love of life, his own life, as lived.

He swung the ratcheted bar around and clicked the cuff closed around open air. When Peter sipped from his paper coffee cup, Neal grinned.

Ahh, inspiration.

He whipped his arm out and snapped the cuff around Peter's coffee cup.

Peter startled and glared at him, his eyes twinkling with humor at the exact same time. How that was humanly possible, Neal would like to know one day. "I forgot what a delight you are when you're bored," said Peter dryly, unshackling his coffee.

Neal swiped them away. "Your fault for forcing me to watch Big Brother: FBI. Seriously, the programming was better in prison."

"Have I ever told you how much I _dream_ of the day your anklet has an electric shock function?" asked Peter.

Neal relaxed back against the wall of the van, glared at Peter, and sipped at his own coffee.

As much as Peter might torment him, tease him about the blasted anklet, and threaten to return him to prison, he never crossed over to emotionally painful territory. The tracker was open season. They both knew how easily he could cut it and run, which made it less of a restraint and more of a symbol of loyalty.

It stung, having it put back on after an off-anklet op. It frustrated his plans, embarrassed him, and could really mess with the drape of a good pair of pants.

But most importantly it had allowed him out of prison, saved his life repeatedly, and brought him the truest friendship he'd known.

"Is it weird that I kind of want to be the one to cuff one of our suspects sometime?" Neal asked, tossing them back up on the bench where he'd found them.

"_Yes_."

"I think it'd be fun. Especially if it were, say, Adler."

"Catching bad guys is about as exhilarating as it gets," said Peter. "You don't get to touch those until you know the difference between catching and hurting."

Handcuffs could hurt. Peter knew that, and in all the many times he'd used them on Neil, it had always been with care and respect for his dignity.


	2. Don't Pick This

It'd hurt in that doctor's office. Drugged out of his mind, he could accept that what he'd just done was going to land him back in prison. Oh well. It'd been a fun vacation, but he'd always known it was temporary.

He wondered if he'd get his old cell back. Call him crazy, but he'd never minded the cell. It was kind of cozy after a little fixing up, and it was his. After tense days in the machine shop with friends who were only friends until a more beneficial partnership came along, dodging leers and advances from guys who noticed he was on the prettier side of manly, it was an okay feeling to be locked in for the night.

So why was his heart breaking? He looked into the FBI agent's frustrated, hurt brown eyes and knew instantly. The only true friend he'd ever known, the one person he felt utterly safe with. And he had to say goodbye.

"You're the one person in my life that I trust."

_Thank you, Peter Burke._

The hand that patted him on the head and came to rest on his shoulder, affectionate and comforting, was all the reply he ever could have wished for.

And when Peter cuffed him to the chair, it hurt like hell.

"Don't. Pick. This." The order was sharp, stern, a message. We said goodbye. Back to business. Back to prison.

He was too dizzy, too weak, the world too blurred and his mind too slow to understand why Peter left him there. He tugged lightly at the metal shackles. Forget picking, this pathetic attempt at restraint could be slipped off in seconds. Peter knew that.

Peter was kind. Peter might not have wanted to cuff his hands up tightly behind his back in the only position that would make them hard to pick, while Neal was drugged and vulnerable. But he was a realistic enough agent to do it without hesitation. Friend or not.

So this had to be an offered escape opportunity. Neal Cafferty is left alone for a few seconds and does what he does best. Not Peter's fault if a heavily drugged and restrained guy wearing a tracking anklet somehow got away while his back was turned.

He tugged again, wondering if he should slip it off his wrist or the chair leg. Wondering how he was supposed to escape when he couldn't stand.

_Don't. Pick. This._

That hadn't been a wink and a nudge. That had been an order.

Obeying orders had never been his strong suit, a flaw that led to an insanely boring amount of time in handcuffs and ankle chains and solitary confinement cells in prison. But an order given by someone who cared about him was a different matter.

He went to sleep.

Peter's pleasant voice woke him up again. _God, I'm going to miss this guy._ Maybe he could work with the FBI again, with Peter again, when he got out.

Peter said things that only sunk into Neal's brain on a time delay, while taking off the handcuffs. Wait. Had he heard that right?

"_You stole that tape for me_?"

"It's a regular Kodak moment." A grin, and Peter dragged Neal to his feet.

It'd been a test. Put yourself in my hands, trust me, obey me, and I'll save your life and your soul.

Okay. I'm along for the ride.


	3. Fowler Intentions

**NEAL**

Whatever he'd expected today, it hadn't been for Fowler to walk in and arrest him.

When Peter took responsibility for it instead and hauled Neal out of his seat, he knew he was being given a chance. A tiny, tenuous chance. Neal gulped, and hoped his trepidation wasn't visible to Peter as he tried, desperately, to use any seconds he might have to convince his handler of his innocence.

He held his wrists together to be cuffed, and Peter did it as a matter of routine, and it wasn't until they were on that it felt like he'd been punched in the gut. If he was one to whimper, he'd have done it then.

Peter's expression was stern, interrogating, but he caught the almost-hidden, split-second waver in Neal's pleading gaze when the cuffs went on. When Peter grabbed his jacket and draped it over his wrists to make the march through the FBI office a little less humiliating, Neal knew he was walking beside a friend.

It felt like walking beside a friend to the gallows.

He was used to being guilty when arrested. Not a little guilty, but running out of room on the charge sheet guilty. The concept of playing by the rules, giving this "being on the right side of the law" routine a sincere chance, and yet winding up in prison framed for theft sobered him.

He didn't get a chance to talk to Peter alone or do anything but show a blank face and keep his mouth shut until he was in the booking room at the jail, about to be handed over.

"Let me have your ankle." Peter's order was crisp and impersonal.

Neal put his foot up on a plastic chair, and Peter removed the anklet while Neal tried not to show how much the simple act hurt. He didn't want the thing off, not now.

"You can leave it on," Neal suggested. "You know, in case someone tries to claim I stole the Hope Diamond while I was in my cell."

"Not now, Neal." Cold. Humorless. Treating Neal like a suspect. A suspect he didn't like at all.

Neal was trying not to tremble. The panic when he'd learned he wasn't going to a Federal white collar prison, but to Sing Sing Penitentiary, was never going to leave a certain place in his heart.

Not because the prison had been that bad. In reality, it hadn't. But because it'd shown him the terrifying ease with which the criminal justice system could leave him shattered.

Peter had been there at his sentencing, had seen his panic and followed him back to the holding cell. Held his shoulders while he hyperventilated and tried not to throw up. When he could actually hear again, talked to him in a gentle voice, reassured him, told him he was a phone call away if Neal needed help. Refused to leave until Neal truly believed that he was going to be okay.

The guy he was being handed over to removed Peter's handcuffs and tossed them back to the agent, and Peter turned away to leave without a word.

The guard threw Neal off-balance, wrenched his arms behind his back, cuffed him, and let his upper body fall forward, kicking the insides of his ankles lightly to get him to spread his legs.

It wasn't as harsh as it looked, and after you'd been through it enough times, not particularly stressful. It was just a technique to keep violent and cagey people off-balance and shaken. Not a lot of fun if you had no intention of hurting the guy doing it to you, but not really abusive either.

But the absolute opposite of Peter's respectful treatment. Even though he was pissed-off and feeling betrayed, Peter had done nothing but touch him gently when he needed to and give plain, clear orders.

Neal struggled to brace his head and upper body against the wall while he was searched. With his arms locked behind his back, it was difficult, and he wished fiercely that he'd ignored his damn pride and talked to Peter when he'd had the chance, company or no company.

**PETER**

It hit Peter in the gut, too. Not the actual cuffing him, but seeing that flash of fear and pain. Neal Caffrey was nothing if not complex, and part of that complexity was a sensitive nature not well concealed in a shell as resilient as rubber.

That scared, hurt waver hadn't been there the first time he'd arrested Neal. Hadn't been there the _second_ time he'd arrested Neal.

Regret, sure. Not so grudging admiration, sure. Depression, sure. Nobody liked to be caught, but Caffrey took it better than most, with straightforward grace and humor.

Fear. Pain. Desperate, pleading denial. Easy to write off from a con man, except that Neal had never done that. Accusing him got you a sly grin, a twinkle in his eye, and a playful toss of the head as he said, "Allegedly."

If Neal actually was innocent, this could be one of the worst things anyone could do to him. If he was innocent, he'd been sincerely trying. And he'd just been thrown up against the wall in cuffs for it.

**NEAL**

The official finished and pulled Neal back upright, turning him around. Neal's breath caught. Peter was still there, looking grim and hard.

"He's not violent," said Peter, focusing that hard look at the man holding Neal's elbow. Seems it might have distressed him to watch Neal being shoved around.

"This is my CI. I _know_ him. He's an escape risk, and a con artist, but he is not a bad guy or a dangerous one. He may even be innocent. I need you to take good care of him for me."

The grip on Neal's elbow loosened, and Neal struggled to keep the wash of emotion and gratitude and love off his face. He got the idea he didn't manage too well.

"You got it, Agent Burke."

Peter stepped forward and hooked his hand around the elbow the guard wasn't holding. Tugged him lightly forward and across the room to a more private corner. The agent's face was if anything harder than before.

"I didn't do this," said Neal. He'd said it before and he would keep saying it, because it was the most important message in the world to get across.

"I'm listening to evidence. Not you. Evidence."

The agent's voice was tight, his body rigid, jaw set. Peter was hurting, and for the first time it occurred to Neal to be touched instead of scared. If all this upset him so much, it could only be because their friendship meant a great deal to Peter as well. _I didn't do it_ wasn't the most important message to convey.

"Peter."

Peter looked him in the eyes. Neal held the gaze as intensely as he possibly could. It was con artist territory, but he didn't know any other way to show his sincerity. "I didn't betray you. I'll never betray you."

And that was going to be a hard promise to live up to. Irredeemable if broken. He modified it, reluctantly. "I'll try not to betray you. With all I've got, I'll try."

Peter's gaze softened. "You've got no idea how much I want to believe that."

Peter pulled Neal forward and wrapped his arms around him in a hug. Neal stood ramrod straight, frozen. He was a felon, a veteran of the prison system, being checked into jail. He could handle it, he didn't need to be coddled.

But dear _God_, did he want to be.

He let his head fall forward against Peter's chest. Let himself be hugged and comforted before he walked into an uncaring and harsh environment, his life no longer his own.

Peter patted him gently on the back. Gave each of his cuffed hands a reassuring squeeze, slipped a finger under each of the metal restraints to make sure they hadn't been applied too tightly, then just held him.

"It's okay for it to hurt," Peter said softly into his ear. "Just don't be afraid."

Footsteps approached and Neal pulled away, gritting his teeth.

"Agent." The voice was pleasant. It wasn't a surprise, the guards in these places could be quite friendly with the right approach. Be nice to them, don't hate them for existing, don't countermand their inbred entitlement to push you around, and have a sense of humor. How most criminals found that so genetically impossible, he didn't know.

"I'm sorry if you thought we were too rough on your CI."

Neal tried not to flinch. Being a baby about procedure was decidedly not how you made friends in jail.

"I didn't," said Peter bluntly.

Thank God. He should stop forgetting that Peter was smart.

"Cafferty, do you feel like you were mistreated?"

Neal looked at the guy. A Sergeant. Probably called in by the man who'd searched him, after Peter snatched Neal from the guy's clutches. Pleasant face to go with the voice.

"Not at all. I've been through this before," Neal answered. "I'm just - saying goodbye to a friend."

There was understanding on the Sergeant's face. Compassion even. "Ready to go back, son?"

"Yes, sir," said Neal quietly. He brought his gaze back to Peter. "I am now."


	4. Blast Zone

This is written from Peter's POV. I'm considering doing a part 2 from Neal's point of view, during the transport. What say ye? Do it or go on to a different story? I'm tempted to move on to something lighter, but on the other hand this is such an emotional story-line, and one that was completely glossed over in the series.

Trigger warning: Discussion of suicide. Not actually done or attempted, but I thought I'd mention it.

* * *

When the plane went up, it was so fast, so forceful, so jarring, that for a horrifying second all Peter could see was Neal framed by fire. A second after that, he was clinging to his CI, who was trying to charge straight into the inferno.

"Let me go, Kate's in there, let me go!" Neal yelled.

The heat was so intense it was almost thick and tactile, but Peter's body felt cold to the bone, his hands and legs numb. The image of Neal being consumed in the explosion was seared into his subconscious even as his conscious mind helped him restrain the very alive, frantic, furiously struggling man in reality.

"I have to save her! I have to save her." Neal was screaming, struggling with more sheer strength than Peter could have imagined. It was an animal struggle, a blinded grief and horror, a mind convinced that if he could just run into the jet that no longer existed, he could save her.

He didn't hit Peter, or kick him. Not even once. Neal could fight, and well. But even in a blind primal panic, hurting a friend was off the table.

Neal stopped fighting around the time the first fire and police vehicles reached the hangar. Peter was pinning him face down on the ground, one arm around the front of his chest and shoulders, when he collapsed.

He went limp on the pavement, put his face against Peter's arm, and sobbed. Peter was lying on him, pinning him, and didn't let go. The heat and the smell of burning jet fuel were choking in their intensity, and tiny pieces and flakes and chunks of ash and debris were tinkling down on them like a light, fine rain.

When an assortment of firefighters, cops, and FBI agents practically picked them up dragged them away, they were both scraped up and bleeding from the life-and-death wrestling match on rough pavement. And Neal was shivering uncontrollably in shock.

* * *

"Peter, Neal Caffrey's being remanded to prison pending a full investigation. You're also being suspended during this process."

Peter stared at his boss blankly. "What?"

"I'm sorry to hit you with this now. I'm only doing it because I know Caffrey's your partner, and I have a narrow window to let you have any control over this at all. Once your suspension is official, what happens to him is completely out of your hands."

"So how do I keep him out?"

Hughes shook his head. "You don't get me. There's no keeping him out. There's just breaking the news gently, as opposed to the Marshals chaining him up and putting him in the back of the van they have waiting out there."

"No. No, _no!_ Neal is in our custody, under my supervision. He just watched the love of his life be murdered. We are not sending him to prison. If OPR or whoever it is wants him supervised, reduce his radius. Put him under house arrest. Put him under arrest at _my_ house if they like, but he is not going back to prison."

"He's fleeing suspect in his girlfriend's murder. He's a suicide risk. Caffrey's not on parole, he belongs to the prison. He's an inmate on a very conditional supervised work release. If you both get cleared, you can see about reinstating it."

* * *

Neal was on the floor of the surveillance van, curled up on his side in the fetal position, crying into his arms. Peter sat down next to him, lifted his head off the floor and tucked his own jacket under it as a pillow, and started rubbing his shoulder and upper arm.

He tried to speak, several times, but the guilt was too strong. He couldn't prattle on with anything comforting with this knowledge in his head. Not without feeling like he was betraying a trust. He took a deep breath, thought about El and Neal and his own career, and prisons and heartbreak, and incinerating heat and tears.

"Neal, I've got to tell you something, and it's probably the hardest thing I've had to say in my whole career," said Peter, bracing himself. The tears were already glazing his own eyes.

"I heard," whispered Neal. "We're in the van. You're wired. I heard it all."

Diana entered the van and stood trying to hide what she was holding. "Guys - the Marshals are out there. They - we - Neal has to be patted down and restrained."

She held up handcuffs and leg irons and the chains that hooked them all together. Prison issue. "NO!" said Peter. "No. No. No. We are _not_ doing that now."

She braced herself against Peter's impassioned protest. "You can do it, one of us can, or the Marshals." She looked at Neal. "Any preference? I'm sorry."

Neal just shrunk about two sizes and huddled closer to Peter, braced for assault and looking like he'd rather be shot. Peter looked away and reflected on the two biggest mistakes in trying to manage Neal Caffrey: Thinking that he wasn't vulnerable or didn't care, and forgetting that he was tough and resilient. This was as vulnerable as it got.

Diana held the restraints out to Peter, who didn't budge, just glared. Finally Peter pointed to the floor, and she dropped them there.

Peter's hands were clenched into fists. "You walk out and you tell them I'm doing it. And Diana, if I ever hear you chained up someone you care about within an hour of them watching the love of their life go up in flames, you're off my team. You go out there and tell them this young man is my partner, he's one of our most valuable consultants, he's my friend. This is acute grief, survivor's guilt, trauma, and physical shock, and putting him in prison in this state is mental and emotional torture. We'll come out when we're ready, and if anyone has a problem with that, they'll be facing a Peter Burke you've never seen and don't want to."

"Wow, Peter. You're scary," said Neal, a hint of smile behind his agonized blue eyes. It was the first coherent thing he'd said since the explosion.

She took a step back, palms up in appeasement. Looked at Neal again. "Neal, I am so, so sorry about Kate. I mean that."

Neal tried to whisper an acknowledgement, but the words didn't come out.

She spoke again. "I care about you, so I don't like saying this in front of you, but I'm going to."

"Diana..." Peter warned.

She looked away from Neal and right at Peter. "It feels cruel. But as an FBI agent, remember that this is a desperate, emotionally distraught murder suspect caught in the act of fleeing a felony sentence. For the second time. This is a high-risk transport, like it or not."

Peter nodded. "Diana, come take my gun."

"Why?"

"Because I'm about to have a sit-down with my emotionally distraught murder suspect, and I don't want you or me worried about him grabbing it."

She stepped forward and pulled the gun out of his shoulder holster.

Peter nodded towards the door of the van. "Now get out. Nobody enters. I'll bring out my chained-up fleeing felon, but right now I'm going to talk to my partner."

Hurting a friend was not an option. Not for Neal at the explosion, not for Peter now.

Peter was breathing heavily, trying to get himself under control and his mind working right. He'd been purposely ignoring that he'd seen a woman blown up in front of his eyes, that a friend he loved had almost been part of that explosion, that his career was threatened, that Neal had been planning to run.

But now he let himself feel all that, briefly. Because he had very little time to get Neal on his feet, and he needed to know how to do it.

If El had been on that plane - nothing would console him. Nothing. He wouldn't be able to hear, think, cope, or react. Nothing would make it better.

But there were things that could make it worse. Like being investigated for her death. Like being put in prison. He probably wouldn't give two thoughts about being locked up, but the mere insinuation that he'd been responsible? Let alone an outright accusation? Added to the guilt the human mind was capable of all on its own, it would break any part of him that hadn't already snapped. Maybe for good.

And it could easily make him want to die.

Neal should go right into suicide watch. But that was possibly the cruelest treatment in the American penal system. Solitary confinement, constant monitoring, no blankets or sheets, no running water, no physical contact, no time out of the cell, lights on 24/7.

In theory, better in absolute misery for a few days or a week than dead. In reality, he wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself for putting Neal through that, or that Neal would or should forgive it.

Torture. That's what this kept coming back around to. And no. He wasn't going to let anyone torture his friend just because he might kill himself. There were choices you could ethically take from someone, and this was not one of them.

He put his hand on Neal's head, buried his fingers in his hair. It was full of ash and dirt, and damp with tears and sweat. "I've never heard you talk about suicide," he said quietly. "Is that an option you'd ever put on the table?"

Neal's eyes filled with tears again. "Yes. Is there anyone who wouldn't, if things got bad enough?"

"I don't know. I'm thinking about being in your shoes right now, what all of this would do to me if it were El, and - I know the potential would be there."

"Thinking about whether to put me on suicide watch?" asked Neal quietly, avoiding his eyes.

"I did," said Peter, stroking the side of Neal's temple with his thumb. It was a gesture more appropriate to a child or a lover, and he watched Neal's reaction closely for any discomfort. There was none, just a softened expression.

"I already decided not to. I know what it entails, and I could never send you into that."

Neal closed his eyes and drew in his breath in a gasping sob. "Thank you."

"You planning to die?" asked Peter. "Because I'm not taking that choice out of your hands, but if you kill yourself in prison, that's blood on mine forever. I honestly don't think I could handle that."

There was a long silence, Neal still with his eyes closed, Peter still stroking the side of his face with his thumb. It seemed to comfort him.

"There are people I'd like to kill more than myself right now, I think," said Neal finally. There was a slim trace of humor in the phrasing, and the voice.

"Okay." Peter drew a deep breath and let it out. "Okay."

He dragged himself back to the El analogy. Suicide was just the most extreme outcome. There was going to be unstoppable grief, guilt, and anger. Tears without end, inability to cope with or hear or comprehend anything.

At a minimum, Neal had to be able to hear and obey orders, and control his behavior around other inmates. He'd made friends on both sides of the law in there, an almost impossible task. There were prisoners who would welcome him with open arms, and guards who would help him and show kindness and compassion.

But there were also prisoners who would try to take him down when he was vulnerable, and surely a few assholes on the corrections staff who wouldn't mind the chance to break the irreverent goofball who'd get out of handcuffs just to hand them back to you with a twinkling grin.

The grief and trauma were going to last for months or years. Tears, sobs, rage, intense emotion were finite. He couldn't try to talk Neal down from the emotional ledge right now, he had to push him over.

"Neal. You grieve for her, right now. You need to cry and scream and sob, and beat the hell out of me if it helps. You remember everything you loved about her and everything you were going to be together and everything you wish you'd been able to say to her and what it felt like seeing that plane go up."

Neal was already shaking, gasping for breath, blue eyes overflowing with tears, but he managed to look Peter in the eyes.

_I get it._

Thank God Neal was so intelligent. Perceptive, resilient, tough. If anyone could make it through this unthinkable mess, it would be him.

"I. Did. Not. Kill. Kate." His cadence was partly for emphasis, partly due to the fact that he was barely able to speak coherently. "I loved - her."

"I know you didn't," said Peter. "Kill her, I mean. I know you loved her deeply."

Neal did cry, and he did scream. He clung to Peter and sobbed, yelled at him, punched at him like a small child, crawled into the darkest corner he could find and sobbed some more.

They finally wound up with Peter sitting on the floor of the van, his legs outstretched, holding Neal. Neal was coiled up in Peter's arms, his face buried against Peter's shoulder, limp and exhausted. The debonair con artist looked and felt more like a war refugee.

Peter realized that anything he wanted to say to Neal, he needed to say now. Later, anything emotional would risk breaking him down when he couldn't afford that luxury.

"Hey," said Peter. "I know you were running, and that hurts. But I'd leave anyone and anything for El. So when it matters, know I'm your friend."

Neal hid his face. "If - none of this works out, think you could still come see me now and then?"

Peter's breath stopped. Neal had never asked him to visit. It was too one-sided, too vulnerable. It was pinning your hopes on someone. Neal had called and written, and Peter had done the same. But he never got the impression Neal wanted to be dragged in front of him in a jumpsuit.

And most of all, it was an admission that Peter was important to him. Peter put his hand on Neal's back. "Any time you want me to. Any time."

"Careful, last person who made a habit of it got blown up."

"I'll take my chances."

"I wish - I'd never met her or proposed to her. I got a beautiful, brilliant, complex woman killed, and -" Neal's voice gave out. He struggled with it and spoke again. "Maybe I do just belong in prison."

"Oh, you belong in prison all right," said Peter. "But not for loving someone. You didn't kill her, someone murdered her. Was probably trying to murder you too."

"She wasted years of her life on - a guy in a cage." He tilted his head up and looked at Peter. "She's the reason I didn't break out and head for Brazil the first month. She wanted a life and a family, with me. She - said she'd run with me if I couldn't handle prison, but if I could, she wanted us to do it right. So I stayed."

"I don't think she wasted anything on you," said Peter quietly. "I think she shared a great love with a loyal, handsome, talented and gentle man who personified everything she dreamed of. And she never had that broken."

Neal started crying again, but more softly, more conscious and sober than his previous uncontrolled emotion.

Peter kept talking softly. "The next however many weeks or months are going to be torture. I don't say that hyperbolically, I mean it literally. I think putting you in a maximum-security prison after what you just saw and went through and are going to be dealing with emotionally constitutes torture."

"That's what I love about you, Peter." Neal's voice held a dash of their usual affectionately abusive banter. "You're so reassuring."

Much as he hated to, Peter passed up the opportunity to get Neal joking. "I'm saying that so that you know. When you're fighting the agony and guilt and grief and traumatic memories that I know you're going to go through without any support, there is nothing wrong or weak about feeling like it's going to kill you."

Silence. No sobbing, or pushing back. His breathing steadied a bit, and his desperately tense body relaxed. "It's that obvious?"

"Basic human psychology."

Neal rolled out of his grip and sat beside him on the floor, drained but calm. "I know how much the FBI means to you. I'm sorry about what you're going to have to go through being investigated."

Peter wasn't ready to think about that just yet. Easier to help someone else than try to cope himself. "It'll work out."

Neal took a deep breath. "I'm ready to go get tortured now. See you in a few weeks?"

Peter stole a sideways glance at the pile of gear Diana had dropped on the floor. It was for transporting high-risk prisoners. People adept at escaping, people like Neal. It was the perfect metaphor for everything that wasn't needed and didn't work on him.

They could hit him over the head with sentences and procedures and restraints designed for dumb, predatory thugs.

Or someone could have the patience to become his friend, give him things to care about, earn his respect and trust. And Neal Caffrey, escape artist, con artist, and just plain artist, would put his entire future in your hands if you told him to.

It was the loyalty, courage, sensitivity, and moral core in Neal that the criminal justice system was too blunt an instrument to access.

That godawful pile of gear was within reach, and Peter pulled it over. The tangle of leg irons and handcuffs and leg and belly chains was all snarled up, and Neal reached out to help him decipher the mess.

The act made Peter's gut skip a beat, like the sensation of being on an elevator at the start of a rapid drop. As if this wasn't heartbreaking enough, Neal had to go and do something adorably Neal.

Peter took a deep breath. "I know - that you would take this trip with me without a single piece of this nonsense. And that means a lot."

"I can see how much you don't want to use it, and _that_ means a lot," said Neal.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bench. "I have to know what happened. We have to catch whoever killed her. I think - I can get through this now by focusing on that."

"Okay." Peter reached out and gave Neal one last hug. Noticed again what a total mess his face and hair and jacket were.

He stood up, found a bottle of water, a roll of paper towels, a first aid kit, and an FBI jacket in Neal's size. Brought them over, and while Neal worked on cleaning the dirt and tears off his face, Peter managed to wipe the worst of the ash and debris out of his hair with wet paper towels. Helped him clean the scrapes and cuts left by rolling around struggling on rough concrete, and put on soothing antibiotic ointment and a few band-aids.

When they were done, Neal stood and zipped up the jacket, sharing a sideways grin with Peter at the irony of what the agent had dressed him in. A thought hit Peter. "That going to get you hurt at the prison?"

Neal shook his head. "Nah. I'll be in felony orange before anyone sees me. Hell, the Marshals will probably rip it off me in about five minutes from now."

Peter shook his head. "I'm riding with you."

Neal tried not to cry again. "You don't have to do that."

"Take a chance of a desperate felon escaping on the way to prison? You know my professional ethics would never allow me."

Neal ran his fingers through his hair and tugged down the windbreaker. "How do I look?"

Halfway alert and human, a far cry from his usual slick self but no longer looking like a bloody mop.

"Dashing and tragic, with a hint of impersonating an FBI agent."

"Perfect."

Peter knew how to use all this stuff. Didn't do so often, and when he did it was on seriously nasty people who would not only escape but cut your throat on the way out the door. Putting it on a heartbroken and traumatized Neal Caffrey felt absurd, cruel, and wrong.

Neal stood up and gave him a little smile, then stood motionless while Peter patted him down and then wrapped the belly chain loosely around his waist. The leg irons were connected to it on yet another chain, and Peter fastened them around his ankles. Neal held his wrists together, and Peter fit the rigid, hinged handcuffs around them carefully.

The cuffs had no chain linking them, just a hinge. They held the wrists closer together and limited range of motion more than standard cuffs.

"This does not look comfy," said Peter, feeling guilty. It was an understatement. Peter had worn them in training, and hated it. Pretty much any attempt to relax or shift position drove the unyielding metal hard against bone, pinning sensitive nerves and making the whole experience utterly miserable. Not a thing he'd ever wanted to do to a person he liked.

"Oh, believe me, it's not," said Neal. "It's almost like they wanted to restrict my movements or something."

Peter sighed. Fantastic. Put the guy in physical as well as emotional pain. Last part. The black box for high-security prisoners.

Neal's lips twitched in amusement. "They brought out the big guns."

It locked even the hinge in place so that there was no movement of the wrists, and blocked the key holes so they couldn't be picked. He hadn't ever been in one of those and didn't want to, but Neal didn't flinch when Peter put it on and linked it into the chain around his waist.

"Okay," said Peter, his words sarcastic but his voice gentle. "Transformation from grieving human being to high-risk felony transport complete."

Neal took several deep, deliberately controlled breaths, his face a blank. Shivered briefly, then focused his eyes and forced a relaxed expression.

"I feel like Hannibal Lecter," said Neal. "Can you get me a hand truck and one of those masks?"

"I can get you a tracking anklet and a deviled ham sandwich?"

"Even brains would be better than your sandwiches."


	5. Blast Zone, Part 2

It should not be this hard to step up into a van. Even chained up hand and foot. There was just enough play in the chain that hobbled him to be able to make the step, and it wasn't a psychological block.

This wasn't a prison transport bus, it was a big white ten-passenger van with comfortable seats and a US Marshal's logo slapped on with a magnet. He wanted to get on it, away from the airstrip and prying eyes and the smell of burning jet fuel that seemed like it would never leave his lungs.

It was his legs, weak and trembling, that weren't up to the task of propelling him up there without any balance or support from his arms. He tried again, felt the wobble, knew if he fell he wouldn't be able to catch himself and it would hurt like hell.

He felt a reassuring, strong hand on his back. "I got you. I won't let you fall."

A man in a US Marshal's uniform appeared in front of him, inside the van, and grabbed his upper arms. He was too blurry to have seen it coming, but the sight induced a surge of affection and safety. The Marshal caught it just as their eyes met and Neal remembered these weren't the Marshals who'd played with him and protected him as a child. He was now the guy they protected people _from_.

The Marshal looked surprised, softened his grip, and held Neal's gaze. "Come on. I won't let you fall either."

With all the support, he made it into the van easily and sat down. Then it all faded again. He was aware, somewhere in the background, of the Marshal checking the restraints and fastening a seat belt across his shoulders. Of a conversation, and Peter sitting beside him.

It was a daze he was familiar with. He'd gone into it when he was first taken to prison. That time, it'd been utter terror combined with the bizarre shock of being unable to so much as move without another person's permission. When nothing happening to him felt even remotely within his sphere of influence, he'd checked out.

This was much the same, only with the terror swapped out for grief. There was no point in even interacting with this world. He coudn't save Kate. She was gone, so what was there to bother with. He was just a toy being tossed around by forces outside of his control. Random forces, malicious forces, caring forces...it didn't matter what they were, because at the end of the day he was a rag doll crumpled forgotten in a corner.

Slowly, after a prelonged, white, dizzy blur, he started to be aware of things. Random things. Clicking turn signals. The fact that it smelled like popcorn. The smooth, clicking vibration of the van rumbling over pavement. Warmth at his side. The fact that this was oddly soothing. A slash in the fabric covering of the seat in front of him.

He was more comfortable than he should be, warmer. He closed his eyes. Gradually became aware that he was leaning against Peter's side, and that Peter had a hand and his lower arm wrapped securely around his wrists so that his grip took pressure off the handcuffs and let him relax in comfort.

What the hell was this bizarre life he was in? He didn't know what he even was. A human punching bag for the world? A prisoner, a bad guy, a con artist? A killer? One of those people who deluded themselves into thinking all the horrible things they did were justified? And why was this baffling FBI agent holding him so kindly?

Right now all he could remember was Peter snapping at him, pushing at him, arresting him, testifying against him, looking at him with hurt and betrayal, treating him like a criminal.

So why was he leaning against the comforting, warm rock who kept doing this to him and helping him through it? Was this some cop-and-robber analogue to an abusive relationship?

He couldn't shake the ugly, whipped feeling from his head. Finally stopped trying. It was better than thinking about Kate. And there it was.

_Why?_

_Why_ was he being sent back to prison? Okay - he was a suspect. Dead girlfriend, felon, scene of crime - crude but logical. But all that nonsense about fleeing?

Oh. Shit.

"Peter, I wasn't fleeing. I was leaving, but legally. I have papers from OPR."

Peter stiffened, and his voice sounded tired. "Don't try to con me right now. Please. Believe it or not, it hurts, and I'm not having the most wonderful day myself."

Neal closed his eyes. Human punching bag. There was only so much he could tell himself he deserved it. He should pull out of Peter's grip. But instead of sitting miserable and lost on his own, he was comfortable and comforted by a person he unaccountably loved and trusted. In a few hours he would very much want this to hold on to.

"What papers from OPR?" Peter's voice was still tired, but it had that resigned, _I'm ready to be wrong_ tone to it.

"From Fowler. We had a deal. I'm out, legally."

Peter's grip tightened. "If that's true, you need to get a good lawyer, immediately. Don't say anything else to me or anyone in law enforcement."

"It's true."

"Get a lawyer." Peter shivered. "This could be one of those times where the line between you out on an anklet driving me insane and you spending the next fifteen years in lockdown is razor-thin."

Neal gulped.

Peter's phone rang, and he answered it. Hearing the sober, depressed, exhausted note in the agent's voice made Neal regret all those dark thoughts. "Yes. All right. I understand, Hughes. Thanks for what you did earlier. Yeah, I'm on the transport with him. I won't."

Peter put the phone back on his lap and sighed. Spoke quietly so that only Neal could hear. "It's official now. I'm suspended."

"I'm sorry," said Neal, just as quietly. "Tell me if I can help."

Peter picked up the phone again, and one-finger texted Elizabeth Burke.

_About to call. Have been suspended pending investigation. Don't want that overheard right now._

Then he called her. "Hey, El. I'm wondering if you could come pick me up at Sing Sing in a little bit."

Chuckle.

"No, sweetie, I'm not under arrest. But -" another deep breath. "Hon, I'm riding on a US Marshals transport with Neal right now. A plane blew up, Kate's dead, and Neal's being sent back to prison."

Silence. A long break for her to talk.

"Yeah. Tell me about it. No, there's nothing I can do. Yes, I tried to get them to put him with us."

Pause.

"About as well as you'd expect."

Pause.

"Yes, he's right here beside me." Peter looked over at Neal. "El wants to talk to you?"

Neal nodded, and Peter put the phone against his ear. Neal pinned it between his cheek and shoulder. "El."

"Neal, sweetheart. I'm so sorry."

He had to smile. "So you coming to pick your husband up at the prison?"

She tried to laugh. "It's not the strangest request he's made of me. Can I bring you anything?"

"Sure. A commercial grade lock pick set, a file, fuzzy handcuffs, and...hmm. A road flare and pistachio gelato."

This time the laugh was real. So was Neal's, when he caught the look the Marshal in the next seat over was giving him. He winked and got a frustrated, bemused head-shake in return.

Peter looked over at the Marshal and pretended to talk behind Neal's back in a loud whisper, shaking his own head. "The man just asked my _wife_ for fuzzy handcuffs."

"Well, give me a few minutes to Google how to get contraband into a prison, and raid my husband's dresser."

"No, no," said Neal. "Trust me, you do_ not_ want to Google that."

"Okay. No road flares for you then. Is there anything I can bring you?"

"A radio and some headphones would be nice, if it's not too much trouble."

"Oh course it's not. What else?"

"That's plenty," said Neal. "I'm fine."

She sighed. "Of course you aren't. I'm not. Peter's not. You're a part of this family. You don't get to tell us you're fine."

Neal's eyes stung, and he could feel the tears coming again. "I have to be fine right now, okay?"

There was a pause. "I'm sorry. I'll bring the road flares."

He managed a chuckle. "Thanks, El."

"Will I get to see you when I come pick up Peter?"

"No, probably not."

"Okay. I'm going to hug you over the phone, then. The gelato will be waiting when you get home. I love you, and so does Peter. Don't forget that."

Neal blinked the tears away frantically. So this was why he stayed in this restrictive, messed-up, un-glamorous, oddly fun situation. He was loved. Not just by Ka - no. No. No. Not the K word. He was loved, and he loved in return. That was a harder thing to find than any of the world's masterpieces, and it couldn't be forged. Not successfully.

"I love you too. And - I gotta go, because crying isn't the most fun way to be hauled into prison."

"You'll have to tell me what the most fun ways are, sometime. I'll see you soon, sweetie."

Neal adjusted the angle of his head, put the trajectories and forces together in his mind, and with a precise flick of his chin sent the phone flying back into Peter's hand.

Peter's head jerked up. "Why do I let anything you do surprise me any more?"

Neal grinned.

"Have you been stuck in these before?" asked Peter, curious. He pointed at the collection of restraints Neal was wearing.

"Yes."

"Could you pick your way out of this setup?"

Neal sighed and leaned his head back. "Not easily. I could do it, but I'd need to be unsupervised and have access to some resources."

"So I've actually got you, for once."

"Don't get cocky," said Neal. "There's more than one way to pull an escape."

"Let me guess. Any minute now, carrier pigeons are going to swoop down from the sky, peck through the window with diamond-coated beaks, and replace you with a forgery?"

"Crows. Smarter, stronger, larger beaks. So. Diana, the van...I'm your partner now?" asked Neal.

"Do you want to be?"

"Well, you are sexy, in an bureaucratic sort of way, but - Peter, I'm straight."

"Hey!" Peter protested. "I'm the one who's supposed to make the embarrassing - wait."

"Sexy in a _bureaucratic_ sort of - wait."

"- Is that an _FBI_ pun?"

Neal grinned, watching Peter tie himself up in knots.

**THAT EVENING**

Neal came out of processing, wearing an orange jumpsuit, trembling and trying desperately not to cry. He had an ID band on his wrist, an intense desire to never go through another cavity search in his life, an appointment with a psychologist, and a booklet on the grieving process that was written for people with the reading comprehension skills and emotional complexity of hamsters.

He was shown to a cell, and the guard left him with instructions on how to get down to the cafeteria. The barred door was left open; he wouldn't be locked in until nighttime, but he had no interest in dinner or venturing out. He made the bed and lay down on it, in the shadows against the wall, hoping nobody would notice him there.

A guard he recognized stopped at the door a little while later. Neal forced himself to remember. "Bobby?"

"Hi, Neal. Sorry to see you back."

"Sorry to see you too. How's the ankle?"

"All better. These just cleared through security for you."

He was holding a cardboard box, and Neal stood up and took it. Had to be from El, and if he had it now, not days from now when somebody go around to delivering it, that meant Bobby had checked specially to see if he had anything waiting.

"That was fast. Thanks, Bobby. I appreciate it."

"You bet, kiddo."

Neal sat down with the box. Radio, headphones. Good quality. Vintage. Not so nice that they'd be stolen the second he left the cell. He was suspecting El had asked Mozzie for a little advice.

An artist's sketch pad, graphite and colored pencils. He flipped the pad open and broke into a grin. Yep, that was Mozzie's - unique - artistic style. He'd sketched all of Neal's absurd requests.

A excessively complete lock pick set, files, fuzzy handcuffs with furry pink eyeballs attached, gelato that looked more like alien mold than delicious pistachio, a stack of road flares with a fuse snaking back to Wiley E. Coyote holding a match.

On the next page was something of an Awkward Family Photos-inspired faux-oil portrait.

Peter, helpfully identified by an arrow leading to the text "Suit." Satchmo, identified as "Suspiciously intelligent alien being." El, of course, was "Mrs. Suit." Mozzie, arms crossed, was "Mozzie the Magnificent and Charmingly Handsome and Not At All Odd." June, wearing pearls and fur and looking sideways at Mozzie, tagged, "I totally do not have a burning desire in my soul for this person. Nope. No way."

A toy jet was crashed on the floor in flames, with tears running down its windshield. A miniature Neal was hugging it.

And Neal was standing there in handcuffs, anklet about three times larger than life, grinning, in the midst of all of them, with Peter's arm across his back. His arrow led to the words, "You, home, where you belong. See you soon, buddy."

And every single one of them had signed it.


	6. Agent of Evil

Back to the fluff after a heart-wrenching couple of chapters. I should mention I'm not trying to do these in order, just according to whatever muse strikes me. Reviews and comments are always greeted gleefully with hugs and kittens.

* * *

Peter didn't take the handcuffs off, just grinned and wrapped his arm around Neal's shoulders as they walked away together. Probably a good thing, because Neal would have hugged him again, in front of Dobbs and the Agent of Evil and everyone.

His leg hurt like hell, he was going back to New York a prisoner, and he was so far beyond happy he couldn't do anything but limp along with that stupid grin on his face. He'd missed it all so much, even being chained up and snarked at by his best friend.

_I've got you. We're going home. Your crazy, complicated, beloved, absurd world is going back to normal._

It was a little unnerving to actually enjoy being in handcuffs. Usually his emotions ran the spectrum from resigned to feeling like a kicked puppy.

_Great._ I really am developing Stockholm Syndrome. Or Cape Verde Syndrome, as the case may be.

Peter removed the cuffs on the plane, once they were airborne, tossing them aside on the adjacent seat. "And here El was teasing me for bringing a handcuff key to a country where I couldn't arrest anyone."

Peter's fingers found the bruised lines around his wrists where Collins' deliberately painful application of handcuffs and zip ties had left their mark. He inspected Neal's wrists gently, but his eyes were on the leg wound.

"Okay, we're safe. Time to answer questions," said Peter.

Neal had been blowing off his attempts to delve more deeply into what happened at Dobbs' place. The island had been a place for capers, cocktails, and trying to stay alive.

"There's a lot to tell," said Neal. "There's the part where he aimed, the part where he pulled the trigger, and my favorite part, where a piece of burning-hot metal got shoved into my leg really fast. It was a thrilling tale."

"Let's start with why he shot you."

"He'd left me gagged and handcuffed in a cell, and -"

"Wait - _gagged_? An FBI agent _gagged_ you?" Peter looked like someone had just told him the Empire State Building had been built out of TNT and kittens.

Neal grinned. "Come on, Peter. Is is so hard to understand? Don't try to tell me you haven't been tempted more than once."

"I've also been tempted to shoot you in the leg more than once," Peter retorted.

The little plane hit an air pocket and dropped sharply, making both of them yelp, startled. The plane leveled out, their eyes met, and they started laughing with a hint of hysteria.

"See, you understand the guy," said Neal. He was flooded with joy, and not sure how to read the deathly serious way Peter seemed to be taking the whole Collins business.

He'd encountered worse violence on any of a half dozen of their cases. Hell, after Keller had knocked him out and later beaten him with a priceless artifact, he'd barely been able to stand for a week.

"There's no fucking reason to gag a prisoner, not ever," said Peter.

Peter swearing? Now _that_ was unusual.

Okay.

Neal made himself focus. He might be close to euphoric, but Peter was seriously distressed. Time to tend the angsty FBI agent so they could get on with proper enjoyment of the flight.

"Okay. There was no reason. He gagged me because it was unpleasant and humiliating."

Peter winced, and rubbed Neal's wrists softly. It was as though by finding all the marks left by cruelty, he could antidote the psychological damage with gentleness. Neal couldn't help but be touched. He'd forgotten just how darn sweet the guy could be.

There were plenty of nice people in the world, and plenty more who thought they were nice. And then there was this hardass FBI agent who cared with such open, un-calculating sincerity that it disarmed him every time.

"The bullet in the leg?" asked Peter, not letting him off the hook.

"Well - given the circumstances, I didn't exactly feel safe in his custody. I used a nail to pick the handcuffs, then started taking the cell apart. Dobbs and Collins came back before I finished, so I sat back down, but they figured things out when the front wall of the cage came crashing down in front of them."

"Observant," said Peter in a dry tone that almost approached a drawl.

"So - I forget his exact words, but Collins decided that since he couldn't keep me from escaping the other way, he was going to shoot me in the leg. He looked me right in the eyes and pulled the trigger."

Peter inhaled sharply. His expression was horrified, and when he met Neal's eyes he could swear the stoic agent wanted to cry.

"You realize I'm okay, right?" Neal asked. "I'm not traumatized. I'm happy. We've been through worse."

"Neal, this isn't - shouldn't be a violent kidnapper we're talking about here. It's an _FBI agent_."

Ah.

"_You're_ an FBI agent," said Neal firmly. "Collins, whatever he calls himself,_ is_ a violent kidnapper. A Pinto and a Ducati are both cars, but it doesn't make them the same. Ducati doesn't get upset when a Pinto erupts into a ball of flame and shoots someone."

Peter closed his eyes, and Neal decided to do what Peter was always doing for him. Pulled him into a firm hug and held on.

"You were scared, weren't you?" Neal teased. "You were scared for me, admit it."

_With good reason._ Neal tried not to shiver at the thought of what sort of shape he'd be in now if Peter hadn't come for him.

Peter wiggled loose and pretended to slap at him. "You have a smart, dangerous guy take out a dead or alive bounty on your best friend sometime."

"I'm sure I'd be thrilled."

"Make sure that guy also defiles everything your profession stands for. In case you haven't gathered as much from hanging out with me, gagging suspects, maiming them, and cutting their wrists are all pretty unacceptable forms of restraint."

"I don't know why, but this isn't going down on my list of nightmares," said Neal. "It's on my favorite memories list. Me, being led away in handcuffs from a tropical paradise by a friend who flew thousands of miles to save me."

"That's gotta be the endorphins talking," said Peter with a fond smile. He gave Neal a theatrical frown of sudden concern that was layered with the real thing. "Are you running a fever?"

Neal grimaced. His leg was throbbing in an unpleasant sort of way. "I might want to get some antibiotics in me at some point. When the doctor pulled that bullet out of me, her anesthesia technique was 'look at the pretty boats,' and I get the sneaking feeling sterile in her world might mean she wiped the forceps really carefully on her sleeve."

Peter recoiled. Again with the horrified stare. "They pulled a bullet out and stitched the wound without anesthetic? What sort of island paradise hell was this?"

"One where Dobbs had enough humanity to call in a doctor and make the Agent of Evil wait while she treated me. Mister Twirly-Mustache was going to force me to walk with a bullet in my leg. I guess I made enough pitiful whimpering noises that Dobbs drew the line there."

"Oh. That's nice," said Peter sarcastically. "The poor kid's in pain, let's do the right thing and operate on him without anesthesia."

Neal had to smile. "It actually was a humane thing to do, the doctor was nice, and it didn't hurt that bad."

Peter sighed and leaned back in his seat. "You're really all right?"

"Yes," said Neal firmly. He meant it. "But I think as a form of therapy, you should be required to serve me foofy drinks until this plane lands."

Peter shook his head. "My bar-tending days are over."

"What, people didn't tip well enough?"

"The outfit was too hot."

"Save that boast for El and get me a mojito," said Neal.

* * *

Peter watched Jones put the anklet back on, enjoying the goofy welcome-back award ceremony, then headed back up to his office.

He hadn't enjoyed watching the conflicted, bare cascade of emotion in Neal's wrenchingly expressive eyes.

Neal had frozen at Jones' sarcastic, "Oh, you do get a medal," before Jones had even produced the anklet. An unmistakable flash of fear. Masked in an instant by playful affection, but it was the response of someone who'd had too recent an encounter with a sadist.

When Jones put the device on, Neal had been as gracious as ever about it. Watched with his usual playful expression. Winced and contained the urge to pull away. Smiled. Gulped. Looked genuinely happy.

Reading too much into it? Neal never had been overly enthusiastic about the anklet, who would be? _Here, remember you're a prisoner_ was a heck of a comedown from a life of luxury and freedom in the tropics.

Neal strolled into his office, grinning and limping. "Any word on our first case back?"

"I'm still adjusting my chair," said Peter. "You're like a five year old." He cocked his head sideways. "Bit of a letdown from island paradise?"

Neal glanced away. "I didn't miss being a prisoner."

Peter didn't know how to respond. The most compassionate part of his soul ached for this guy, the FBI agent who knew he was lucky to be alive and out of prison wanted to tell him to suck it up.

Which, come to think of it, was probably the basic thought process behind all those conflicted expressions of Neal's. They were both complex human beings and allowed to be.

But fear didn't belong there. The look of misgiving he'd given Jones had been - too deeply real. "Sit down."

Neal sat, trying not to wince.

"I think that was fear I saw down there. I think the Agent of Evil got to you."

"I'm not entirely superhuman," said Neal softly, letting Peter see the vulnerability he so often hid. "It's possible I may need some time to recover from the shock of being shot while I was standing in a cage with my hands up in surrender pleading with him not to."

"And of another agent more or less trying to make you his indentured servant?"

"That too."

They looked at each other for a minute, compassion and understanding on both sides.

"Why don't you join me and El for dinner tonight," Peter suggested.

There was no conflict in the content look Neal gave him in return. "I'll be there."

Peter stood up. "One other thing. I couldn't find those cuffs I took off you on the plane."

Neal grinned.

"You _stole_ Collins's handcuffs?"

"I'm big on having the last word."

"Taking trophies is what serial killers do," said Peter, trying not to laugh.

"Now you're giving me ideas," retorted Neal. "They'll be stuffed and mounted over the fireplace next time you come over."


	7. Does Not Do Congeniality

Tag to Ancient History, written at GhostDog401's request :D

* * *

"You guys know I'm your inside man, right?" Neal asked the less than communicative NYPD officer, trying not to let an unwelcome attack of worry get to him.

He'd spent so much of his life avoiding this exact situation, being arrested during a heist, that even doing this undercover felt just a little too real. A cop who had no clue what was going on, jerking him around by the back of his shirt, was all it took to make his blood run cold.

Where _was_ Peter?

This had a not-so-subtle seasoning of "everything's going terribly wrong," and he was being shoved against a cop car in handcuffs with all the gentleness and consideration afforded to a misbehaving sack of potatoes.

And now stuffed into the back seat in mid-sentence.

_Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect._

That was what the logo on the police car said. Hmm. Not so much, jackass. Courtesy and respect usually involve actually listening to people.

_It's not for real. It's not for real._

But where the hell was Peter?

"FBI. Stand down."

There he was, advancing on the arresting officer like an agreeably protective Labrador retriever.

"He's with us," called Peter.

"If he were in the back of your car, he'd be with you," replied the smug, uniformed jackass.

"Ohhaha." Peter's laugh was mirthless and insincere. "When did you make assistant chief?" he asked, starting the requisite small talk. Neal wasn't sure if Peter knowing the guy was a good or a bad thing.

"Got my second star last month."

"Look. This is our operation."

"So says you. But without your help I-"

_And now I'm being used as the prize in an inter-agency blustering match. Fantastic._

Antiques. Pompous Napoleon with the gold braid uniform here thinks priceless relics of Greek history are _antiques_. Neal started working his way out of the handcuffs to control his irritation.

It really didn't work. It just pissed him off even more. He got that handcuffing people was about the best safety measure ever invented, for both cops and suspects. But if you were were going to literally put someone in chains and haul them off to a cell? Least you could to was take five seconds to look him in the eye and acknowledge that he was a human being.

_Prison guards_ had used these on him with more respect.

Neal glared out the window and let Napoleon have it. "While we're correcting semantic gaffes, antiques are what you get when you pull off the highway in Michigan. Those are priceless, pre-Christian antiquities."

Peter shook his head, his expression somewhere between a wince and a grimace. "Neal. Not helping."

_Not smart_, was what he meant. Neal agreed, in theory. He even decided to drop the planned continuation of his rant, but finished it in his head for sheer satisfaction.

_But then, I shouldn't be surprised that someone who can't give the guy you're taking prisoner the courtesy of thirty seconds to speak for himself also lacks the most basic respect for, oh, I don't know,_ _the history of humanity_.

In principle, sometimes there was only so much he felt like putting his head down and taking. He wiggled over to snag the yellow origami flower, ditching the second handcuff at the same time.

His heart relaxed in relief when Peter opened the door and said, "Come on."

Napoleon opened his mouth again, and just like that, Neal became a human bargaining chip once more. Peter was standing beside him, and placed his right hand lightly on Neal's back.

_It's okay. I got you._

And it was times like this that he loved Peter Burke. That was how simple it was to be respectful and caring. One touch, and he would follow this FBI agent anywhere.

Neal kept his hands clasped behind his back, pretending he was still cuffed. His principles had limits, and one of those limits was enduring a spur-of-the moment beat-down from the NYPD. Another was involving his protector in it.

And in moments, the cockfight was over and he was free.

Neal called after Napoleon. "Oh - here you go." He handed the guy back his own handcuffs and flashed his very best insincere smile. "Thanks a lot."

The weight of the world lifted, he and Peter walked away grinning, and just like that, it was a good day.

* * *

"You really get caught by a patrol officer?" asked Diana in teasing glee.

"That does not count," Neal protested. "I thought they were my backup."

"Ah, but you did get cuffed," said Jones with a certain - satisfaction in his voice.

"Didn't bring him in, doesn't count," said Peter.

"_Thank_ you," said Neal.

Ahh, getting teased by the FBI. How in the world was this so fun? This was a high like no other, being himself, Neal Caffrey, goofing around with the FBI and getting plucked out of cop cars after the cops were impertinent enough to arrest him for robbing a museum.

No wonder Peter walked around grinning all the time. This was_ fun_.

* * *

"That's called bull. Get my guy out of your car." Neal could hear the frustration in Peter's voice from twenty feet away, through the glass window of the police cruiser.

His heart pounded, and he braced himself. He didn't even need to hear their words to know where this was headed. Napoleon was on a power trip, and he was going to jail.

_It's okay. It's okay. You won't be charged. It's not going to be for real. People get arrested and released all the time._

He gulped and set his face, trying to breathe normally. Napoleon strutted away, and Peter turned towards the rolled-up window and met his eyes.

Neal gulped again. _Help._

Peter came over and pressed his hand against the glass. His smile was amused, but his gentle brown eyes looked straight into Neal's.

_I know. It's okay._

"Don't worry." He was keeping his voice low and Neal couldn't hear the words, but he could read them. "I'll be right behind you."

* * *

The young patrol cop who got in to drive him to jail a few minutes later actually did match the slogan on the outside of the car. He fired up the engine and twisted in his seat, giving Neal an appraising once-over and, when Neal nodded in greeting, a pleasant smile.

"You all right back there?"

"Yes," said Neal, returning the smile and almost meaning it. The handcuffs had been put on too tight and his wrists hurt, but he didn't feel like whining about it. He felt like getting this over with as quickly as possible.

"Okay. My name is Blake Cohen. If you're scared or have any questions about how this works, I'm here to talk to."

Neal's shoulders slumped in relief. This was one of the good guys, not some malicious flunky of Napoleon's.

"Thank you," said Neal sincerely. "Neal Caffrey."

"Let's take a drive, Neal."

They pulled out of the parking lot and into the honking mess of traffic, where they promptly got stuck. The officer occupied himself on his computer, and Neal started thinking about his own work.

This was probably going to be boring and unpleasant. Might as well pass the time figuring out the case. Strolling out of jail having cracked the whole thing would be a stylish exit.

* * *

Officer Cohen helped him out of the car at the police precinct and instantly noticed the over-tightened handcuffs. "Ouch," said Cohen, taking hold of the cuffs and loosening first one, than the other. "You should have said something. I don't like the idea of you sitting back there in pain all that time."

Neal shrugged. "Didn't feel like making a big deal about it."

Cohen patted him on the the back and walked him into the building without Napoleon's penchant for shoving him around unnecessarily. He kept a firm grip on Neal's arm, but it felt more like a friendly support to make sure he didn't fall when he was cuffed than a constant threat to jerk the shit out of him.

All of which turned out to be a good thing for the young cop's career.

Neal had no idea Peter had tailed them to the precinct and followed them in until he heard a familiar voice presenting a badge and demanding to be buzzed into the booking area.

When Peter said he'd be right behind them, he'd meant it literally. Neal couldn't help breaking into a broad smile when he joined them.

"I was on the phone while we were stuck in traffic," said Peter. "Apparently there's no stopping the parade of red tape once you've been arrested, but we can turn it around pretty quick."

"Define pretty quick," said Neal dryly.

"You're going to be booked and put into holding. On a felony charge like this, the next step is a transport out to Rikers, but the FBI's arranged to have your case processed like a standard drunk and disorderly."

"Oh. That's...nice."

"Trust me, it is," said Officer Cohen. "If they schedule you for transfer, you're snarled up in the system for days at least. If it's handled as a misdemeanor, and the FBI can post bail for you, you'll be outta here later today."

Peter nodded grimly. "I'll be here waiting for you, Neal. We'll get all this stuff handled, you just hang tight."

"The holding area is just plain scary," Cohen warned him. "It's aesthetically ugly as hell, it's noisy and doesn't smell nice, and you're going to be stuffed into a cell with two or three other guys. But the supervisors keep a close watch and they'll yank out anyone who acts violent immediately. You won't get ganged up on. If you can keep from being scared by the surroundings, it won't be that bad."

Neal nodded. "Okay."

"I'm sorry, Neal," said Peter quietly. Then his expression lightened. "You do realize you're not going to be hearing the end of this for weeks, right?"

"I know, I know," muttered Neal. "I've come down in the world."

"World-class art forger Neal Caffrey, thrown into the city drunk tank." Peter shook his head. "It's a sad and pitiful day."

Neal was actually a little curious as he was led into the holding area, since the element of fear had been removed from the equation by Peter's dogged protectiveness and the pleasant officer.

He'd been in prison, and jails including one particularly unpleasant experience in Italy that tarnished the romance of the country considerably. He had not, however, been tossed in the city drunk tank before. It was a little below his criminal pay grade.

The place resembled a giant boarding kennel or animal shelter more than anything else. The residents were about as quiet and well behaved as the pit bull section at the pound. His own kennel was a mess of metal grates and bars with chipped-up paint, fronting a pen of grey concrete and steel. It contained a burly guy in an expensive business shirt who was sitting on the floor eyeing the toilet like it was his best friend.

A jittery little fellow with a buzz cut appeared to be seeing if there was any portion of the cell that could be pried off and tucked into his pocket. He'd just given up on the metal grate covering a drain in the floor.

An agreeably disheveled man with salt-and-pepper hair that had last seen a barber about six months ago was sitting on the inhospitable steel bench that was the only furnishing aside from a matching steel commode. Officer Cohen had been right, it was ugly as hell. But there was a high window letting in natural light, and the grating that made up the entire front wall kept it from feeling overly claustrophobic. It was an okay place to spend a few hours.

"Afternoon, all," said Neal dryly. "I like what you've done with the place. Very Swedish Minimalist. Stainless steel appliances have been out of fashion for a little while, though."

Mr. Twitchy surveyed him with rapt concentration for anything shiny he might be able to divest his new cellmate of. Business-Shirt greeted him by vomiting into the toilet.

"Are you one of them?" asked the disheveled guy, eyeing him with misgiving and shrinking back against the wall. The martini odor on his breath did not, however, retreat.

Neal gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Depends on who 'they' are."

"A reptilian. One of them."

"Oh," said Neal. "No. Although I was born with a nictitating membrane over one eye. It was surgically removed, and I've been monitored by government -"

"Nicotine? You got nicotine patches?" asked Twitchy eagerly.

"I did, but the guards stole them on the way in," said Neal.

"Oh." Twitchy sat down, dejected. Martini-breath gave him a pitying look before returning his focus to Neal.

"We gotta get outta here, man," said Martini-breath. "See those markings on the bars?"

Neal didn't.

"No, no, you don't. They should be there, the protective symbols have been removed, and that means when we hit peak oil-"

Martini-breath stopped short when Twitchy started tugging on one of the rivets on his jeans. "These are made of copper," said Twitchy, applying his fingernails to the problem. "You kin sell copper, you know. Get good money for it too, my buddy out on the docks says they got magnets in 'em that heal your-"

"Let go of me!" yelped Martini-breath. "I have very sensitive skin, and my -"

"Hey." Neal tapped Twitchy on the shoulder, and the man jumped about a foot in the air. Neal pointed at the narrow, horizontal slit of a window up near the ceiling that let a faint bar of natural light into the cell. "See that window?"

Twitchy nodded.

"See those little wires crisscrossing it? They're made of gold. If you're really patient, you can pick them out with your fingernails."

Twitchy's eyes lit up, and he immediately applied himself to figuring out how to reach the window. Neal rolled his eyes and sat down beside Martini-breath. It appeared he was on babysitting duty for however long it took to fish him out of the tank.

* * *

**PETER**

Peter wished he knew when and why he'd gotten this absurdly protective of his CI. He was one of the most skilled white collar criminals in the world, he was a felon who's spent four years in a maximum security prison, he faced down kidnappers and killers with ease, and he could darn well handle sitting in a holding cell for a few hours.

Because the bastard is using a human being to tweak me.

Because the least I owe Caffrey is to not get him arrested when he's actually obeying the law for once.

Because he looked so worried in the back of that police car.

Because he's my responsibility, my friend, and I care about him.

Peter pulled a stick of foil-wrapped gum out of his pocket, unfolded the wrapper, and spread it out on a table. After thinking for a minute, he wrote, "Still doesn't count. Burke 2, NYPD 0."

* * *

**NEAL**

"All right, all right, all right," said Neal, swatting away the most paranoid drunk he'd met in his life when the man tried to check in his hair for an alien implant.

"I'll tell you who I really am," said Neal in his most serious voice. "But you have to stay back from me, because I could be dangerous to you."

Martini-breath sat back attentively, eyes wide. "Okay. Okay. I can handle the truth. I can handle the truth."

Neal put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. "I'm allegedly a world-renowned art forger and thief. I got so infamous that the FBI put one of their best agents on the case to catch me."

"Feds," whispered Martini-breath. "I knew it."

"They put me in prison and spend four years brainwashing me, then one day the FBI agent who caught me showed up. He put a tracking device on my ankle, and made me work for him, or they'd put me back in prison. Back -" Neal made air quotes with his fingers, '-_working in the machine shop_.'"

Martini-breath shivered in horror with the thrilled expression of a child listening to ghost stories.

"The Feds watch my every move. That agent is my handler now, and he spies on me with his cell phone so he can see where I go and what I do. If they lose track of me for so much as a minute, they send out the US Marshals to hunt me down with guns."

"Oh, bullshit," said the rotund drunk curled up miserably by the toilet. "You're no fucking -" he forfeited conversation in lieu of throwing up, ostensibly in the toilet. His aim was as good as his judgment in when to quit drinking, and Neal stood up and took hold of his shoulders to steady him and get him pointed in the right direction.

A cop accompanied by a burly guard stopped in front of the barred cell. "Caffrey," he said sharply.

Neal straightened. "Here."

The cop held up his tracking anklet. "We got an FBI agent out there's insisting we put this on you. Seems he's got nothin' better to do all day than sit around and track you from the lobby."

Neal grinned. "You don't say. Rather persistent, isn't he?" He gave martini-breath a sideways glance and a wink.

"I'll say," muttered the cop. "He's been a pain in the ass. This was the only way to shut him up from threatening us every five minutes about what would happen if we accidentally transferred you out to Rikers. He gets much more aggressive about monitoring you, I'm throwing his ass in here too and having done with it."

"Please do," said Neal. "Please, please do. Peter Burke stuck in the drunk tank would be a memory to cherish for a lifetime."

* * *

**PETER**

Peter stifled a spike of anxiety when he saw the officer returning. "He okay?"

The officer chuckled. "He's fine. He's got two drunks and a shopping cart thief in the cell with him completely enthralled. If we had one of him for each cage, the place would run itself."

Peter grinned despite himself. Neal Caffrey. You gotta love that guy.

"That's Neal."

The officer returned the smile. "I see why you care about him. We took him out of the cell, and - we get a pretty cranky crowd here and I'm not wild about getting my face anywhere near a suspect's feet. He sees me figuring out how to do this and keep my nose intact. First words out of his mouth was to tell me he wasn't gonna kick me, and the next is that he's completely fine with wearing the thing. It's a nice change from fuck you and get me out of this place."

* * *

**NEAL**

The anklet itched. Not exactly itched, really. Something about it was irritating him. Odd, because unlike the first model which had been a frequent annoyance, this one was really very comfortable. Even on bare skin, if for example the cops had seen fit to divest one of shoes and socks in favor of paper slippers.

He slipped a finger under the anklet and rubbed at it. His finger encountered something.

It was a chewing gum wrapper, folded neatly with the metallic side out in a long rectangle, perfectly smooth. It had been stuck to the inside of the anklet, where to a casual observer it would have looked like a metal contact of some sort.

He unfolded it carefully.

_Still doesn't count. Burke 2, NYPD 0._

His face broke into a huge grin.

Peter.

Not one of the three rather lovable misfits in this cell with him would ever be able to comprehend how completely he adored his FBI handler.

* * *

"Says the man who spent four hours in a cell with two drunk and disorderlies and a shopping-cart thief," teased Peter, his eyes twinkling.

"How'd you know who I was in a cell with?" asked Neal a few minutes later.

Peter glanced sideways at him. "I meant it when I said I'd be right behind you. This freaked you out a little, didn't it?"

"Yeah," admitted Neal reluctantly.

"Remember that feeling, next time you think about robbing a museum for real. Only I won't be picking you up in four hours, it'll be years."

Neal gulped. Usually Peter's threats of prison didn't get to him. This one somehow did. Something about the NYPD was far more frightening than the FBI.

"Is this Peter Burke's scared straight program for CIs?"

"It's Peter Burke's really not wanting to see his friend in prison program for CIs."

Neal smiled, and looked away, embarrassed. "Thank you."

"Were you okay in there?"

"Yeah, I was fine. The anklet was a nice touch, though."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "I got you to actually like the anklet? We should throw you in jail more often."

"Let's not."

Peter wrapped an arm around his back to walk them to the car, and Neal returned the gesture, hugging him fiercely. There was no way what he'd felt in that cell when he found Peter's message could be put into words.


	8. Meet Neal Caffrey

Peter was still licking at the sucker when he followed the crowd out of the storage facility, grinning. Stale, but flavored by delicious triumph.

He'd grown fond of Caffrey during the chase. Anyone who'd walk up to him and hand him a lollypop, send champagne to a surveillance van, and then shake his hand while being arrested held a certain amount of appeal.

Yes, he was a con artist to whom disarming charm was a sharply honed tool. But Caffrey was physically and psychologically nonviolent. The charm was a tool, where most people in his business used it as a weapon.

He caught up with Jones just as they were finishing frisking Caffrey and reading him his rights. The young master criminal gave Peter a fascinated look as he approached, and Peter returned it.

Caffrey looked cocky and playful, even under arrest. There was absolutely no resentment or hate in his expression; he looked more like he was finally meeting a friend from the internet in person.

Jones opened the back door of the FBI sedan and pointed. "Get in. I'm going to put my hand on your head so you don't hit it on the doorjamb."

Getting into a car cuffed was more difficult than it looked, but Caffrey managed it almost effortlessly. Jones fastened the seatbelt across his chest, and Peter joined him in the back seat of the sedan. He hadn't planned on riding with his prize, but his gut told him to.

Caffrey was shifting around uncomfortably in his seat, and Peter caught his eye. "Scoot forward on the seat and lean your weight back against your shoulders, not your wrists. It's putting pressure on those cuffs that's so unpleasant."

Caffrey took his advice and instantly relaxed, giving Peter a grateful glance.

"What happens now?" asked Caffrey as they pulled into traffic. "Rubber hoses and waterboarding?"

Peter grinned. "Well, I _am_ taking you to the FBI for interrogation."

He saw a flicker of well-masked fear. "We serve a really good cheese danish and some pretty bad coffee. The coffee's usually enough to make anyone confess."

Caffrey gave him a sly sideways grin. "So the cheese danish is the good cop half of the duo?" Caffrey's eyes sparkled with humor, and his face was relaxed, but his arms were trembling.

"Are the cuffs hurting you?" asked Peter.

"Only my ego," said Caffrey flippantly.

Trust the gut. Peter put a hand on Caffrey's upper arm and left it there. It was easier to control one's expression than the body's physical reactions. This guy was scared. Peter didn't know if his touch would be reassuring or frightening, but his gut said do it.

Caffrey swallowed hard and looked away. He didn't shrink from the touch; unless Peter was imagining things, he actually moved a millimeter or two closer.

"Your world's about to get pretty scary and kinda unpleasant for a while," said Peter with genuine empathy. "But you're going to be fine. Keep your chin up and remember you're young and you'll be free again with a good life ahead, okay?"

Caffrey looked at him almost timidly, the coolheaded facade unmasked a bit by kindness. "You don't hate me?"

"Nah. I kind of like you. You hate me?"

"Nah. I kind of like you," said Caffrey, grinning. "Are you going to be the one to interrogate me?"

"If you'll let me," said Peter. He still kept the reassuring hand on Caffrey's arm. "They read you your rights. You understand you can refuse to be questioned without a lawyer present, right? The FBI takes this stuff seriously. If you ask for a lawyer, there won't be any questioning after that, no threats, no bullying. Nothing bad will happen to you if you request legal counsel."

Caffrey looked at Peter with deepening respect. "I've never been interrogated by the FBI before," he said. "If you want to question me, I'm up for it."

Peter smiled. This kid wasn't going to confess. He wanted to meet the guy who caught him. Peter was a good interrogator, but Caffrey was far too savvy to give him anything useful.

"I wouldn't mind meeting you, either," said Peter.

Caffrey looked a little embarrassed, and fell silent. With silence came a sober expression and the return of that uncontrollable tremor, affecting his whole body now, not just his arms.

"What are you most afraid of?" asked Peter quietly, so that Jones in the driver's seat couldn't hear.

"Brazilian wandering spiders," said Caffrey. "Followed closely by creepy dolls wearing polka-dot suits and clown makeup."

Peter smiled, but didn't say anything. Some time later, a much smaller-sounding voice answered his question. "I don't know. I honestly don't know why I'm trembling. I'm a little nervous, but I'm not _that_ scared."

"You just lost all control over your life," said Peter. "For a guy used to planning for and controlling all the variables, that's gotta be like getting thrown off a cliff."

Caffrey looked down, and Peter gave his arm a compassionate squeeze. "You'll be fine. Don't try to fight any of this, just observe it until you find your footing."

"Why the caring?" asked Caffrey.

"Why did you send champagne to my van?" asked Peter.

"Touche," said Neal. "Hey, it was New Year's, we were having a party - I felt bad for you guys."

Peter realized he'd just thought of him as Neal, not Caffrey. When the car pulled into the FBI parking garage, Peter got out and waited while Jones got Caffrey out of the car.

It was a painful collision of two people trying too hard. Jones opened the door and unsnapped Caffrey's seat belt, then stepped back and motioned to him.

"Come on out." His next move was clearly going to be to steady Caffrey as he got out, but he didn't want to grab a compliant suspect and just drag him out of the vehicle.

The problem was his suspect was too compliant. Caffrey got his legs out and devoted himself wholeheartedly to obeying the order the second it was given, but he was nervous and not used to maneuvering in handcuffs. He slammed his forehead against the door frame, yelped, and fell backwards back into the car. He landed on his cuffed wrists and yelped again.

"I'm sorry." Jones and Caffrey said it simultaneously.

"People usually try to hit their heads on the way into the car, not on the way out," said Jones, worried and giving Peter an uneasy look.

Peter pulled Jones gently to the side and took his place. The young agent had a good heart, but his head was still in the military. He lacked the right set of instincts for dealing with nervous people.

Caffrey was sitting upright again, his feet out the door. But his jaw was clenched and he was blinking over and over again in pain. Handcuffed, Neal was unable to touch his face to ease the pain and check for injury.

Moving slowly enough that Caffrey could see his intentions, Peter put his hand gently across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Neal leaned gratefully against his palm, and the frantic blinking stopped a few moments later.

"I don't see or feel any blood," said Peter. "I think you're fine."

Caffrey's breathing steadied, and he pulled away. "Thanks."

"Hurt your wrists?"

Caffrey grimaced. "That stung. But I'm okay."

"Ready to try this again?"

Caffrey nodded. "Somewhat anxious to prove that I am in fact capable of exiting a car without giving myself a concussion."

Peter smiled and supported a cheerful-looking but physically wobbly Neal Caffrey out of the car.

Peter kept a firm grip on Caffrey on the way through the garage. Not just as a control measure, but because if he tripped with his hands cuffed behind his back, he wouldn't be able to break his fall.

They took a short flight of stairs up to the elevator, and Caffrey's legs betrayed him at the top step, which he tripped over instead of clearing. Peter was ready for it and caught him effortlessly, supporting his upper body while he got his feet under him again.

"Easy, kiddo, I got you," said Peter. "Stop trying so hard."

After that, Caffrey had a hard time looking anywhere in his direction. His cheeks were reddened with embarrassment, and he didn't look up when they entered the interview room.

Peter pulled back a chair and steadied Caffrey while he sat down, realizing as he did so that he hadn't needed to give the kid a single order. Peter uncuffed him, releasing his hands from the uncomfortable position behind his back.

"Thanks," said Caffrey, sounding surprised.

"What, you thought I was just going to leave you like that?" asked Peter, equally surprised. What on earth had Peter done to give him the idea he'd be mean enough to make a non-violent suspect sit with his hands chained behind his back for hours in a perfectly secure room?

_He thinks he's going to escape._

The kid had such a high opinion of his own skills that he'd taken it for granted that the FBI would give themselves a fighting chance by at least leaving the cuffs on.

"Sort of," said Caffrey, rubbing his wrists and looking sheepish for doing it.

Peter grinned and resisted the urge to pat him on the head. But on second thought...he gave Caffrey an affectionate pat and rumpled his fingers through his hair, exploring until he found the hidden handcuff key tucked behind his ear like a pencil for con artists.

"Hey!" Neal yelped in protest.

Peter held up his trophy, and Caffrey feigned trying to snatch it from him. Even the way he did that was endearing, with a genuinely playful twinkle in his eye but a deliberate slowness to telegraph_ I am not going for your gun. I am not attacking you. I'm playing._

Peter slapped his hand away with equally reassuring slowness. _I'm not retaliating. I wouldn't hit you. I'm playing too._

Dangerous game, but fun. They were both grinning when Peter sat down on the other side of the table.

"This place is nice," said Caffrey, looking around at the spacious, glass-walled interview room. Peter liked the space. It was deceptively sturdy, but felt open and relaxing and had a beautiful view of the city.

"Where do I go after this?" asked Caffrey.

"Federal detention center," said Peter. "Not so nice. But not really that bad, either. Get used to it, I don't think you're getting bail."

Caffrey grimaced. "Turn-down service?"

"Not even a mint."

"Wow, that is bad. Room service?"

"Think less silver platter, more school cafeteria."

"Damn. What's their Michelin rating?"

"Too exclusive to be rated," said Peter. "On the plus side, no reservations required."

He watched the flickers of fear and curiosity on Neal's - Caffrey's - face. Peter wasn't usually this concerned about suspects, but he saw distinct liking and trust in those hesitant glimpses. If Caffrey wanted to let him in, Peter wanted to be there for him.

"You ever been to jail?" asked Peter. He knew Caffrey hadn't been arrested in the US, but he couldn't be so sure about elsewhere.

The young man's eyes shifted sideways. "Briefly. In Italy. Less of a jail, more of a dungeon in the back of a country police station. It wasn't fun. Lots of punching, no garnish on the entrees, that sort of thing."

"Released?"

"Escaped."

"Ah. Don't try to escape from the detention center. On the plus side, I can pretty much promise no involuntary boxing lessons."

"It's a deal." Caffrey's eyes snapped back up to his. "I don't see any cheese danish."

Peter had to grin. "Are you as hungry as I am?"

It was past dinnertime, and his stomach was growling now that the adrenaline of the sting was wearing off. Caffrey gave him a cautious look, then nodded.

"Pizza, or Chinese?" asked Peter. "I'll order in."

"Pizza," said Caffrey instantly. "Chinese food is too bad-cop-movie, given the current situation."

"Pepperoni?"

"Of course."

Peter pointed to the glass pane on the other side of the room. "That's one-way glass. Above it is a camera. There are agents watching you, and the door locks behind me when I leave. If you try to get out while I'm ordering dinner, I'm just going to have to come cuff you again."

"I won't," said Caffrey, not too convincingly.

"It's pretty, but it can hold you," said Peter. "Be good."

"If it's so invincible, why are you trying to convince me to stay put?"

"Because I'd rather not see attempted escape on your charge sheet," said Peter bluntly. "You keep this strictly white collar, you get off a hell of a lot easier."

That hadn't been the answer Caffrey'd been expecting. There was that flash of unmistakable respect again. The fact that Peter wasn't trying to screw him over or hurt him clearly surprised him.

* * *

"You going to stress him?" asked Jones. "Try to push him into slipping up?"

Peter glanced through the one-way glass. They had him, pretty solidly, on the bond forgery. The other charges...might not hold up in court without a confession.

But he knew Caffrey. He wasn't the sort to get flustered just because an FBI agent leaned over his shoulder and yelled at him. He was smart and confident and fast on his feet, and would absolutely shut up and ask for a lawyer if Peter made the interview an unpleasant experience.

"Don't think it'd get us anywhere," replied Peter.

Caffrey's expression when Peter walked back into the interview room with pizza and Cokes was a genuinely friendly, welcoming one. And he hadn't tried to escape, though Jones said he'd prowled around and examined every millimeter of the room while Peter was gone.

Peter sat down across from him and realized he didn't even _want_ Caffrey to confess to anything. He was young, non-violent, not particularly predatory, and a near-savant at everything he set his mind to.

They had him on bond forgery. He was going to prison, and longer might not be better. A few years in a comfortable medium-security Federal pen could sober him, serve as a warning._ Do you really want to spend decades of your life like this? Change course while you can._ Getting the book thrown at him wouldn't help, but a time-out with structure and rules might.

"You know I'm here as an FBI agent, to obtain information to be used against you in court, right?"

Neal cocked his head ever so slightly to the left in curious examination. "And you know that I'm not going to discuss any alleged crimes with you, right?"

"Yep. Let's eat pizza," said Peter. They were both genuinely starved, and lit into the pie like it was the first thing they'd eaten in a week. Peter took advantage of the chance to observe Caffrey, his amusement growing by the minute.

When their eating slowed, Peter stared him down. "Okay, Caffrey. I'll take the plastic fork, my watch, the soda bottle cap, the salt and pepper packets, and that nice plastic shim they call a customer rewards card back now."

Caffrey gave him a startled, and rather impressed, look. "Oh, and the bolt you so carefully unscrewed from the right table leg," added Peter. Blushing a little and trying not to sulk, Caffrey emptied his pockets. But they were both grinning when Peter slipped his watch back on.

"What are you planning to do with the straw?" asked Peter.

Neal rolled his eyes and added it to the pile. "Nothing yet. Just seemed like it might come in handy."

"You're going to jail, not the Macgyver writer's room," said Peter.

"What?" Caffrey feigned shock. "Okay, I was grossly mislead somewhere along the way, I thought his was how they did their hiring."

"I've heard of people stealing everything that isn't bolted down, but taking the bolts themselves? That's dedication to the job."

"Well, I'm nervous. I'm just trying to show off."

"Is that what you were doing when you hit that museum in Munich?" asked Peter. "Showing off?"

Caffrey batted his eyes at him. "Museum in Munich? Why, Agent, I have no earthly idea what you are talking about."

* * *

It was two in the morning, and Peter was exhausted. So was Neal, and it was absolutely plain to him and any other sane person watching that Neal wasn't going to give him a thing. But this was far from adversarial.

They were enjoying it. They were kicked back in their chairs, the table was covered in coffee cups and pizza boxes and cookies.

Caffrey had started making a game out of finding synonyms for 'allegedly,' and Peter had retaliated by figuring out every possible way to say "You're going to prison."

Unsaid was the unpleasant fact that what came next for Neal was jail, and he wasn't anxious to hurry that along. Any more than Peter was anxious to send him.

But they were exhausted. It was time to call it quits. Peter sighed. "I'm gonna go call for a transport for you to the detention center."

Neal's expression shifted to something unreadable. "You aren't taking me?"

"Nope. You think I'm that big of an egomaniac, that I want to personally drag you in like a trophy elk or something?"

Neal shook his head. "Well, you did seem a little unnervingly gleeful. I just thought - you were going to."

Worry. That was the unreadable flicker. He _wanted_ Peter to take him in.

"I could, I guess," said Peter. "But I'm not your friend. I'm your case agent. The next time I see you is probably going to be in court, where I will testify against you and I will eviscerate you. I'm sending you to prison."

Neal smiled. "I know who you are."

"You nervous?" asked Peter.

Neal avoided his gaze and shrugged.

Peter looked down. "Neal - people who haven't been to jail before tend to freak out. When they do, it's not dignified. It's not something most people want to do in front of...anyone they might meet again."

Neal swallowed hard. "Already freaking out. Maybe I'd rather not do that in front of some random guy in a uniform."

_I trust you._

Peter was touched. Well aware that he was speaking to an accomplished con artist who knew how to flatter, but touched. He took out his handcuffs. "Stand up."

Neal did so, awkwardly trying to figure out what to do with his hands before clasping them behind his back.

"In front of you, palms up," said Peter.

Cuffing suspects with their hands in front didn't restrict range of movement much, and just gave them a handy chain to strangle you with. It pretty much negated the whole point of handcuffing someone. But it was vastly more comfortable than being cuffed behind the back. Both physically and emotionally. For someone like Neal, restraint could afford to be more psychological than physical.

"Thank you," said Neal sincerely, holding his wrists up. "That whole behind the back thing wasn't a lot of fun."

Peter snapped the cuffs on while Caffrey tried not to flinch. "Let's face it, you're a bit of a klutz with your hands cuffed behind you. Don't try anything."

Neal smiled. "You saw me on a bad day is all. And I won't."

Peter called a probie down to drive them. Caffrey walked quietly at his side, observing everything but making no move to run.

He got into the car without being asked, and didn't panic, or struggle, or cry. He remained calm, alert, and even curious. But he got very quiet, and lost the flippant remarks.

"You okay?" asked Peter.

Caffrey nodded and thought for a minute, looking out the window at the traffic. "Odd how - this feels so much more peaceful than running, even though it's what I was running from. I'm strangely okay with this."

They rode in silence until the car pulled into the sally port at the detention center. Caffrey gave him a sincere look of respect and affection that didn't seem to contain any shred of con artist.

"Thank you for being kind, Agent Burke. It means more to me than you know."

Peter returned the look. "Don't be scared. This is an intimidating process to go through, but you'll be just fine."

Caffrey nodded, and Peter helped him out of the car. The space was locked down. There was nowhere for him to run, and Peter watched Caffrey reach the same conclusion. When he had, Peter forewent the controlling grip on his arm in favor of a reassuring hand on his back while they walked up to the reinforced steel and polycarbonate door and waited to be buzzed in.

Neal froze just outside the door when Peter opened it. "Don't be scared," repeated Peter. "Don't be scared. I'm trying to help you, believe it or not. I'm not trying to ruin your life, I'm trying to save it. Don't be scared. This is not malice, and this is not hell I'm leading you into."

Neal's intense blue eyes flicked up and met his. "I'm going to trust you on that."

It struck Peter as real, and significant. "Good. I'll send you champagne when you get out."

Neal grinned, the playful confidence returning to his expression. "And you're still on my birthday card list."

"This is where we part ways," said Peter, taking the clipboard someone handed him with intake paperwork, and pointing at the secure lobby where an officer was holding the door open for Caffrey.

Neal nodded. "It was nice to finally meet you, Agent Burke."

Peter fished a business card out of his wallet and wrote his home phone number on it alongside the printed work and cell numbers. "If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'll take your call."

The look Neal Caffrey gave him when he took the card was quite possibly one of the sweetest and most complex expressions Peter had ever seen.


End file.
